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An older man with tattoos holding a wrench and a younger man with a dirty face, both smiling, stand outside a rustic garage. Photorealistic.

An older man with tattoos holding a wrench and a younger man with a dirty face, both smiling, stand outside a rustic garage. Photorealistic.

At the center are two figures standing side by side, frozen mid-laughter just outside a small, rust-stained garage. The younger of the two—a lean man in his early twenties—is caught mid-grin, his teeth visible, lips pulled back in a way that makes his cheeks round and his eyes nearly shut from the force of the smile. His hair is shorter and unstyled, tousled like he’s just run a greasy hand through it, and there’s a smudge of black oil on one cheek. He wears a light yellow T-shirt, faded and soft-looking, printed with the cracked logo of an old punk band. Loose, pale denim jeans hang low on his hips, their knees worn thin and just starting to tear. There’s something about his posture—relaxed, tilted slightly toward the man beside him—that speaks of trust, of unspoken safety. The older man beside him is stockier and barrel-chested, with weathered, sun-darkened skin and long black hair streaked with gray, pulled back into a loose ponytail. His mustache is thick and dark, and his angular jaw gives his face a stoic, commanding edge. He wears a white ribbed tank top, tucked into olive-green cargo pants, both streaked with oil and dust from a long day’s work. One arm is crossed over his chest, the other hangs loosely by his side, still holding a heavy socket wrench. A tattoo sleeve of saints, skulls, and script winds down his forearm, ending just above his knuckles. Though the older man’s expression is harder to read, his eyes give him away: they’re soft, amused, proud. There's a See more